Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  Hannibal snorted.

  “My only ‘advantage’ was fifteen years studying martial arts,” he growled. “If my brother had stuck to his karate lessons, he’d be where I am now.”

  “Yeah, well, your lil’ bro has ambitions to make it there anyway,” Red grinned. “How do you think his chances are?”

  Hannibal narrowed his eyes.

  “I think he’s gonna get his ass kicked,” Baller admitted. “And I don’t think it’ll have happened nearly soon enough.”

  Red’s eyes opened wide.

  “That’s cold, son. That’s your own flesh and blood you’re talkin’ about there.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes my own flesh and blood needs to learn a lesson,” Hannibal growled. “Which is why I’m tolerating this.”

  Red snorted. A wicked smile curled across his face.

  “Why you’re ‘tolerating’ this?” He chuckled. “Like, you got some kind of say in the matter?” He jerked his thumb towards the octagon. “Your brother’s full grown, son. He’s old enough and dumb enough to make decisions for himself.”

  “Yeah,” Hannibal growled. “That’s the problem.”

  “Well, let’s see how he does tonight. Your boy might surprise you yet, son.”

  Hannibal narrowed his eyes. He doubted that. He just wanted to be sure Julius didn’t get hurt learning this expensive lesson.

  Before they could continue talking, there was a commotion in the crowd. Making his way up the steps into the redneck ‘VIP section’ was a beast of a man, practically bursting out of a skin-tight cotton tank top.

  “Aww, shit,” Red grinned. “My other guest of honor is here. Can’t wait for you two to become acquainted.”

  Red pushed back his chair and stood up to welcome his guest. Turning in their seats, Hannibal and Kristen looked up as he arrived; watching Red embrace this looming, muscular black man enthusiastically.

  “Guys,” Red grinned, turning to his two guests. “I’d like to introduce you to my star fighter – Rashaan Jackson.”

  Hannibal didn’t stand up or shake the new arrival’s hand. He just looked up at him, and narrowed his eyes.

  There’d been a lot of showboating and loud noises that evening, but Hannibal had yet to see anything remotely resembling a real fighter. The fact that his skinny brother was getting into the octagon reinforced his suspicions about the whole event.

  But this guy Red was introducing them too?

  He was tall, and muscular – a figurative brick shithouse. And with his mean-looking face and big, calloused hands, there was no doubt that Rasheen Jackson was the real deal.

  Right up until that moment, Hannibal had been worried that this whole underground fight league was some kind of scam. But the moment he laid eyes on this towering stranger, he started to wonder if there was an even more terrifying possibility.

  That this fighting circuit was the real thing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kristen

  Up until then, Kristen had kept her mouth shut, and her fingers tightly wrapped around Hannibal’s.

  This whole setup was incredibly intimidating. The loud music, the angry crowd and the looming promise of organized violence. The fact that she was with Hannibal was the only thing that let her keep her nerve.

  But the moment this stranger – Rasheen Jackson – appeared, the atmosphere in that redneck trailer subtly changed.

  Up until then, Hannibal had been wary, but confident – and not without good reason. Red was a loudmouthed asshole, and his guards looked like thugs. But if shit went down, it was clear that Hannibal was the toughest guy in that warehouse, and he’d look after her.

  But Hannibal’s reaction to Rasheen’s arrival had been unmistakable. It was like two pit bulls being introduced – they both got their heckles up immediately.

  And, the truth be told, Kristen didn’t blame Hannibal for being wary. This Rasheen kid looked like a mean son of a bitch. He was all burly bulk where Hannibal was lean muscle. He had a flat, rugged face and was bristling with tattoos. The Mohawk haircut and big, black beard just added to his intimidating appearance.

  From the way Hannibal squeezed her hand, and his shoulders hunched up, it was clear he saw Rasheen as somebody dangerous. Perhaps the only man in that warehouse who was a match for him.

  Red clearly spotted the tension between the two fighters, and his eyes flashed in delight.

  “So Rasheen here is my star fighter,” he grinned at Hannibal. “Twelve fights, undefeated. One of these days we’re gonna get him in a legitimate league, and then y’all better watch your ass.” Red winked. “Be careful, Baller. He’ll be after you.”

  Rasheen snorted at the introduction.

  “And this here…” Red began, but Rasheen cut him off.

  “I know who this is.” Jackson crossed his beefy arms. “Baller Alexander. Watched all your fights. Up until that white boy busted your ass in that hotel lobby.”

  Hannibal tensed up when he heard that.

  The fight with James MacDonald – the one that had led to Hannibal’s three month suspension – was still a hot-button topic for him.

  “You fightin’ tonight?” Rasheen asked. He turned to Red. “I reckon I could take him, Boss.”

  Red grinned, clapping his hands together.

  “I reckon too, son,” he grinned. “But Baller’s just here to watch tonight. His lil’ brother’s in the cage.”

  Rasheen snorted.

  “Well, if you ever find the balls to get in the octagon with me,” he sneered, “tell Red here. He’ll hook us up good.”

  Hannibal’s eyes were narrow slits.

  “I’m a real fighter,” he growled at Rashaan. “I fight in real leagues.”

  Rashaan wasn’t impressed.

  “Sounds like that’s your excuse for chicken-shitting out of fighting me.”

  Kristen felt Hannibal’s grip tighten around her fingers.

  “Now, now boys,” Red grinned. “Save that shit for the octagon. We’re all friends here.” He offered Rasheen a Miller Lite. “Take a seat. The fights are about to begin.”

  Rasheen growled, and refused the beer.

  “I’m fightin’ tonight,” he reminded his boss. Instead he grabbed a bottle of water and nodded at his boss. “I’m gonna go and get ready.”

  And then, giving Hannibal one last sneer, the fighter wheeled around and headed for the stairs.

  A moment later he was gone – disappearing into the crowd at the exact moment the lights started fading and the music died.

  Kristen and Hannibal turned towards the makeshift octagon.

  It looked like the entertainment was about to begin.

  Chapter Twelve

  Kristen

  Kristen blinked and shielded her eyes as spotlights suddenly lit up the makeshift ‘VIP’ trailer.

  From somewhere, Red had found a microphone – and with hundreds of faces looking up at them, the cowboy-hatted fight promoter stood up behind Hannibal and Kristen, and roared: “Welcome, y’all!”

  The crowd screamed and hollered.

  “We’ve got one hell of a night planned for you good people,” the redneck grinned, roaring into the microphone. “We’ve got six fights lined up, all culminating in my boy Rasheen ‘Hungry’ Jackson squaring off against last month’s champion. Y’all ready for some of that?”

  The crowd went wild.

  “Hell yeah, you are!” Red grinned. He was clearly loving being the center of attention. “Now before we begin, I’d like y’all to look up here and see who we got watchin’ tonight’s fights.” The spotlights centered in Hannibal, who shielded his eyes from the light. “It’s none other than Las Vegas’ legend Hannibal ‘Baller’ Alexander!”

  The crowd went crazy, roaring and hollering as they recognized the famous fighter.

  Kristen watched as Hannibal cringed at the attention. She didn’t need the inside track on the MMA circuit to know why he was upset. Being seen at an illegal fight circuit like this could get him in a lot of trouble with th
e MMA authorities – and less than a month into his suspension, that was the sort of heat Hannibal didn’t need.

  Ignoring Hannibal’s reaction, Red kept talking.

  “Y’all think that’s good? Wait ‘til our fourth fight. You’re gonna see Baller’s lil’ brother, Julius, take to the cage! Fresh off last month’s victory, he’s gonna be facing off against Manny ‘Cannibal’ Mendoza tonight.”

  The crowd screamed and hollered again.

  Red grinned, but gestured for the crowd to quieten down.

  “Now, before we begin, I gotta warn y’all that unlicensed betting is illegal in the state of Connecticut – so whatever you do, don’t go and talk to any of the four bookies we’ve got in each corner this place.” From the reaction of the crowd, it was clear Red was actually suggesting they do the exact opposite of that. “But most of all, have fun. We cool?”

  The crowd screamed their approval.

  “Well, glad to hear it – now let’s get on with the fights!”

  And with that, the music blared back across the speakers, and the spotlights drenched the octagon.

  Red flopped into the lawn chair and fanned himself with his hat.

  “Good crowd,” he grinned, reaching for a Miller Lite. “And I should hope so. They’re in for one hell of a show tonight.”

  Kristen turned to her stepbrother, and saw Hannibal’s stern, tense expression.

  It was clear the more he experienced this underground fighting circuit, the more uneasy it made him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hannibal

  The first fight looked like it was going to be a joke.

  Hannibal had seen more intimidating fighters on homemade YouTube videos than the two guys who sauntered onto stage first.

  One was a neck-bearded white kid who looked like he’d spent more hours playing World of Warcraft than sparring in a gym. With his pale, spotty face and round, saggy belly, Hannibal didn’t think he’d be able to last the cardio three 5-minute rounds would entail – let alone the fighting itself.

  And that feeling was reinforced the moment his opponent stepped into the gym. Sure, he wasn’t MMA material – but the Hispanic guy who stepped up into the octagon was leaner, meaner and had a look in his eye that Hannibal knew was dangerous.

  “For the first fight of the evening,” an announcer declared, “we have Matthew ‘Legend’ Lograno versus Juan Rodriguez!”

  The announcer gave some bio details that Hannibal didn’t even bother listening to. He just watched as the two fighters lined up, and worked out the odds in his head.

  As a twenty-year martial arts student, and a championship MMA fighter, he was good at reading opponents. He could see from the stiff way the white kid moved that he’d learned most of his moves from a Gracie jujitsu DVD (not that there was anything wrong with that – except that it couldn’t replace real rolling on the mats.)

  The Mexican guy, on the other hand, clearly didn’t have the martial arts experience – but Hannibal had a suspicion he knew how to fight. A lot of these kids from south of the border did.

  An airhorn signaled the start of the fight, and Hannibal watched with intense focus as the two opponents circled each other in the ring.

  Right from the get-go, he knew something was up.

  The white kid was slow, and sloppy. If he’d been in the Mexican guy’s shoes, Hannibal would have come in swinging, and knocked the little punk to the floor.

  But he didn’t. The Spanish guy hung back – deliberately.

  It wasn’t ridiculously obvious – perhaps to the roaring crowds, there was nothing weird about it. But Hannibal knew better – and he watched with suspicion as the Mexican fighter took swings, and dodged blows, but always held back from pulverizing the sloppy white kid like he deserved.

  And that went on until the third round – when ‘Legend’ Lograno attempted a take-down on Rodriguez that, by rights, shouldn’t have worked.

  Like it was part of a jujitsu demonstration – not a live fight – the white kid struggled to put Rodriguez into an arm bar. Eventually, he succeeded; and almost dutifully the Hispanic fighter tapped out.

  A tepid rumble of approval went through the crowd.

  As the ‘Legend’ had his arm raised above his head, Hannibal turned in his seat and glared at Red.

  “Yo,” he barked. “What the fuck was that bullshit?”

  Red looked at Baller, and snorted. “Whaddya mean, son?”

  “That fight? That was some fixed shit if I ever saw it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Red laughed. “Looked legit to me.”

  And then, on stage, the white kid was handed his winnings and walked off stage swaggering like a rock star.

  Hannibal didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

  But Red dismissed his suspicions.

  “Catch these next fights,” he warned. “Then tell me it’s fixed.”

  And Hannibal turned back to the octagon, and watched Red proven right.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hannibal

  Hannibal had fought in the octagon over a hundred times, and he’d never seen anything like what happened next.

  Compared to the tepid bullshit of the Logrono/Rodriguez fight, the two brawlers who swaggered into the octagon next looked like rabid pit bulls.

  Steven ‘Batshit’ Barthe was a mean-looking African-American sonofabitch with prison tattoos. The other guy just went by the name Sanchez – and he looked like Danny Trejo’s meaner older brother.

  The moment the air horn sounded, and the fight began, Hannibal realized there was nothing fake about it.

  Barthe and Sanchez went at each other prison style.

  It was brutal. Punches, and kicks, and clawing and spitting. Within seconds, blood splattered the dirty canvas of the octagon and by the end of the first round somebody’s tooth was on the floor.

  “Holy shit,” Hannibal breathed. Kristen couldn’t even watch.

  Shit like this was why fight clubs went underground. It was brutal, dehumanizing violence – about as far removed from the realm of Hannibal’s professional MMA league as it was possible to get.

  In Hannibal’s world, fighters entered the octagon to win, not to injure. There were rules in place, and standards people lived up to.

  None of that shit mattered here.

  Sanchez and Barthe were going at each other like rabid animals, and the crowd was going nuts.

  It all came to a head in the third round, in which Barthe threw a punch a little too wide – and Sanchez returned it with a roundhouse kick.

  His shin impacted with Barthe’s nose, and Barthe’s nose exploded like an overripe tomato. Blood splattered the crowd, and the African American fighter went down like a sack of potatoes.

  “Holy shit,” Hannibal repeated.

  “Yeah,” Red grinned, punching him in the arm. “Yeah. Now you look at me and tell me that shit’s fake.”

  The ref split the fight up, and only after confirming that Barthe was still breathing did they hoist Sanchez’ arm high above his head and declare him the winner.

  “See that guy?” Red slurped his beer. “Convicted felon. Deported three times. The chances of seeing him in a legitimate MMA fight are slim to none.” He drained his can of Miller Lite. “But here? I don’t care about your back story. I only care that you can fight.”

  Hannibal watched as Barthe was lugged off stage. If he survived without a concussion or a detached retina, he’d be surprised. It was the sort of shit professional MMA leagues were created to prevent happening – but down in the dirty world of underground fighting, unscrupulous crooks like Red were all too happy to have his fighters mutilate each other.

  Next up came a different style of fighting all over again – two good-looking girls in sports bras and Lycra shorts. With cornrows and mouthguards, neither of them looked ‘hot’ – but they were certainly more sexed up than the competitive female athletes Hannibal normally shared a billing with.

  “Man, the crowd love
catfights,” Red grinned, popping another can of beer. “Watch the reaction.”

  And Hannibal did. The crowd went wild as the two girls started fighting – and the kicking, punching and scratching that followed was enough to make even the Sanchez fight look respectable.

  “I used to be a bouncer,” Red grinned, as the ref called the first round, and the two girls staggered off to have their cuts treated. “I’ll tell you what – ain’t nothin’ meaner than two girls going at each other.”

  And that seemed true enough. As the air horn announced the start of the next round, the two girls lunged at each other and the fight quickly went down to the canvas.

  The two women scrapped and brawled. One of them had a breast yanked out of her sports bra, and the crowd went wild – cheering and hollering. The wardrobe malfunction didn’t prevent her from getting the upper hand in the grounding and pounding – and before the clock ran down, she’d managed to get her opponent to tap out by way of a brutally executed triangle choke hold.

  “Dayum!” Red raised his beer. “Now that was some fightin’!” He turned to Hannibal. “I expected that to go into the third round, no?”

  Hannibal said nothing. He was just thinking about how brutal these fights were. He’d been convinced that first fight was staged – but after seeing the blood and teeth on the canvas in the fights which followed, even he’d begun to question himself.

  But none of that mattered now – because the next fight of the evening was the one he’d come to see:

  His little brother, up against another Spanish-looking guy called Manny ‘Cannibal’ Mendoza.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hannibal

  The uneasy feeling returned to Hannibal’s stomach the moment Jules and his opponent entered the octagon.

  The previous two fights have convinced him that this dirty, underground fighting league was real. Real enough for him to be worried about his brother’s safety.

  But the man Jules would be fighting against didn’t look like an MMA champion. Despite the ‘Cannibal’ nickname, Manny Mendoza was a slender, unremarkable Mexican guy who looked like he’d be more comfortable mowing lawns or pumping gas than fighting in the cage.